MURDER by DEATH

                   by Lisa Polisar

Good evening, and thank you for taking an interest in New Mystery Reader magazine.

My name is Lionel Twain and I will be your host for tonight’s dinner.  Please, do sit down.  May I bring you a glass of Port?   

Some of the guests have already arrived and have convened in the formal dining room.  I’m sorry?  What’s that now?  What do you mean “which” dining room?  I assure you my mansion has only one of course. 

I have four regular guests for my monthly dinner parties, all of whom share the characteristics of a prestigious occupation, unconventionally flamboyant wealth, and an uncommon lust for two things: books … and  murder.  With that in mind, let me introduce you to the other attendees of tonight’s festivities: 

Mr. Googel, my blind butler

Mrs. Maddening, my mute cook

Genevieve Champlaine, Senior Editor of the London Times

Val O’Leary, owner of Oxford Books and Editor of Alfred Hitchcock’s Magazine

Nicos Parapoulas, multi-millionaire and owner of Athens Cruise lines

Gigi Chandler, Board Chair of the British Museum, CEO of British Production Company

(Yes yes, I know.  She is a fetching specimen, isn’t she?  Bit heavy on the lipstick, though, if you ask me.)   

I’m sorry, what was that?  Oh, the purpose of this dinner, you ask?  Well, we are somewhat of a book club, I suppose, of the absolute loftiest kind.  In between our gourmet dinner consumption, set within an atmosphere of pernicious backstabbing, witty commentary, and biting sarcasm, we manage to report on different kinds of mystery novels fresh to the buying market.  

For tonight’s dinner, I have flown in an international chef who has both Antoine’s and Maxim’s on his professional resume: Chef Henri Bouganfeld.  Now, let me tell you what he’s serving us:

A Menu … To Die For

Wine          Chateau Phelan Segur, Bordeaux-St. Estephe, 1996

Appetizer                         (Choice of three)

§         Beluga Caviar: blini, crème fraiche & melted butter

§         Crevettes Remoulade: boiled Louisiana shrimp served cold in a tangy horseradish and Creole mustard dressing

§         Les escargots a la Bourguignonne – snails blasted in a sauce of garlic butter and fresh greens

Soup            Sherry-laced alligator bisque

Salad           Sautéed wild mushrooms over endive with chevre and roasted garlic

Entree         Prime filet of beef w/shrimp in a wine and lemon
                   sauce   

Dessert        Pear William soufflé

Coffee          Tanzanian Peaberry

As you can see, my guests are hovered ‘round the dining room table like a school of hungry sharks.  Please, follow me.  Oh drat!  What’s going on in there? 

                      *    

In the kitchen, I see Mr. Googel admonishing the refrigerator, while Chef Henri Bouganfeld looks on with an innocuous glare.  Meanwhile, Mrs. Maddening is cracking an iron skillet against the marble counter.

“What the devil’s going on?” I demand.

Mrs. Maddening flings the skillet onto the counter, her arms crossed over her bulging bosom. 

“Googel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got everything under control here?”

“Barring the appearance of chaos, sir, indeed.  Mrs. Maddening’s just a bit undone by Chef Bouganfeld.  She’ll warm up to him in no time.”

(Back in the dining room) 

“Beluga, Lionel, you have really outdone yourself this time,” Gigi Chandler exclaims while blinking her false eyelashes.  “What’s the occasion?”

As the guests slowly settle down at the table, I gallantly lift my glass.  “Precedence, flamboyance, and an uncompromising sense of style.” 

Nicos rolls his eyes, pouring liberally from the carafe.

 
Gigi exudes a haughty cackle. 

 
Val O’Leary turns to Gigi.  “Could you kindly extinguish that swirling tobacco stick?  I feel like I’m in a bloody opium den,” he snaps, fanning a veil of smoke from his eyes.

“Oh…go smoke your mustache.  What would you know about opium, anyway?”  Gigi raises a brow.

“So now you think I’m sheltered?”

“Either that or you’re a vampire, since you only come out of your house once a week to… polish your car.” 

Val rolls his eyes.  “Rubbish.”

I watch them and grit my teeth, fully versed in the eccentricities of unstable personalities and accustomed to the seething animosity among my guests.  Call me an instigator if you will, but I’m a sucker for scandal. 

Chef Henri Bouganfeld brings out the soup.  Both women swoon, and Gigi Chandler blushes as he grins at her.

“Bloak’s got yellow teeth,” Nicos whispers to Val O’Leary.

 
“No surprise, since they only bathe once a month over there,” Val mumbles back.  “If that.” 

“Alligator bisque,” Chef Henri proclaims.

Genny Champlaine lets out a grand gasp.  “Alligator?  I certainly hope you washed them first.”

Val O’Leary coughs up a throatful of wine.

“Well they’re horribly dirty animals,” she explains.  “Lying in the mud for days waiting for prey.”

“If you don’t want any, dear, don’t eat it,” I say gently.

Chef Henri halts in the doorway, listening, then slowly backs up toward the table. “Something-matter-bisque?” he addresses Genny in broken English. 

“It’s just…well…I’m a vegetarian.”

“Oh come on!”  Val slaps a palm on the table.  “I’ve seen you devour a prime rib like a Serengeti jackal.”

"My…goodness!”

Val O’Leary fans another smoke cloud from his face.

“Tell you what,” Gigi says turning to him, “I shall gladly snuff out my cigarette…” she leans close, “if you let me wire your mouth shut.” 

“Indeed,” Val snorts, slurping up his last spoonful of the bisque.  “Were you raised in a brothel…or raised by wolves?”

“Brothel,” Genny pipes in.

“Wolves,” Nicos adds.

“Shut up -- all of you!”  I stand firmly at the helm.  “Let’s remember why we’re all here.”

 
“Yes, of course.”  Val fondles his serpentine mustache.  “I do apologize, my dear.” 

Gigi looks away, taking another puff.  “Maybe talking about books will keep me from being verbally attacked!  She pauses to apply another coat of lipstick.  “I’ve just finished reading a deliciously perverse thriller called Four Blind Mi –”

 “Yes, yes,” Genny interrupts, “by that author of the Alex Cross series.  I simply adore that man!”

“James Patterson,” Gigi continues.  “In Four Blind Mice (2002, Little, Brown & Company), Alex Cross is on the brink of retirement when he’s unwittingly yanked into a seamy world of military cover-ups, lies and deception that result in a mounting accumulation of young dead girls.  Page-turner is far too weak a phrase for the suspense.  Published in hardcover, audio cassette, and audio CD.”

                  *

At the sound of the chef’s bell, Mr. Googel clears the soup plates and returns with a tray full of salads. 

Out of nowhere, Mrs. Maddening appears next to Gigi Chandler. 

“Yes?” Gigi queries, slapping a hand to her chest in response.

The large, expressive eyes blink back. 

“Mrs. Maddening?  What is it?”

“She can’t speak, Miss,” Googel says, doling out the plates.

“Well I know that. Whatever does she want?”

"Borrow your lipstick, perhaps,” Genny suggests.

“Ha! It’d set the poor woman’s mouth aflame.”

Gigi blazes her coal eyes at Val.  “You didn’t seem to mind my lipstick too much, Val.  You remember, now, don’t you?”

 Nicos leans on the table.  “My God, is there a single male on the planet with whom you haven’t shared a bed?”

I stand and lift my glass.  “How about a toast?”

No one moves.

“All right then, Nicos, what have you got to add to the mix?”

“Indigo Slam by Robert Crais.  So fresh to the market it’s not even due out till February.  It can be ordered, as I understand it, from that invisible bookstore called Nile Books or somethi—” 

“No, no,” Genny says.  “You mean amazon.com.” 

“Yes, my dear, that’s it!  Well, for those of you who like a good old-fashioned, hard-boiled yarn, Detective Elvis Cole is back for another romp through the Los Angeles underbelly.  Hired by three teenagers, he first finds himself in the midst of family politics and ends up in a war between Russian gangsters, Vietnamese patriots and a tangled knot of federal agents.  It’s published in mass market paperback by Ballantine Books.” 

Googel appears in the doorway with a stack of full plates piled haphazardly one on top of the other.  “Filet Mignon Scampeggiato,” he says, as a steak flies off the top tray, bounces in the center of the table knocking over three wine glasses in its path.  The usual pandemonium ensues.

“Oh, God, idiot, imbecile, how could you…, insolent bastard, Jesus H…” 

“Where’s Chef Henri?” I ask Googel, to distract him from the chorus of expletives.

“It’s Chef Bouganfeld,” Genny corrects me. 

Val clears his throat.  “Bouganfield, isn’t it?” 

“Bouganvillea,” Nicos offers.

“He’s not a flower, you idiot!” Val says. 

“Idiot?  What’s got you in such an ill temper anyway?  Still mad about last month’s asparagus soup episode, I suppose.  Heh heh.” 

Genny looks at Nicos.  “Maybe business is slow for him.  Hell, every other market’s gone soft as of late.  Even you aren’t insulated from the antics of the mighty dollar, Val.”

 
“You can think what you like.  But if the World Bank were to fall to thieves, rest assured I would still be eating my Beluga whilst you all fell to pieces.” 

I can’t help but moan at their pettiness. 

Genny puts her manicured fingers on my forearm.  “Lionel, are you all right?” 

“How about a hint of tolerance and civility for a change?”  I cut into the first bite of steak.  It melts on the back of my tongue.  “Oh,” I moan.  “Divine, Henri, simply divine!”  But when I look up at Henri, I see the milk-faced complexion of Mr. Googel instead.   

“Where’s Chef Henri?” I ask, watching the whites of his eyes fixed on the bay window. 

No response. 

“And where’s Gigi?” Genny cackles.  “Probably flirting with Henri, that little tart.” 

“Yes, M’um,” Googel answers.  “All during the salad course, M’um.”

My hands tremble with impatience.  “Where-is-he?”

“Who sir?”

“Henri, Henri, for God’s sake!”

“Well, sir, he’s, he’s, you see…”

“Spit it out…”  

“He’s dead, I’m afraid.” 

A chain reaction silences the table. 

“What do you mean, dead?  I saw him just a few, well, twenty minutes ago.”

“On the kitchen floor sir, wearing Ms. Chandler’s gloves with all his clothes on inside out.”
 

“Nicos,” I whisper, “would you be so kind as to accompany me into the kitchen?”  I feel his heavy thudded gait creaking behind me as I brace my eyes and ears.

*

Val and Genny, left alone in the dining room, look around nervously.   

“Well, Miss, what have you got up your sleeve?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” Genny says.  “I mean after all, we’re talking about…murder.”

“Not necessarily.  Perhaps the chef killed himself.”

“Hardly,” she scoffs.  “For what?  An international chef, no doubt a millionaire…” 

Val coils the end of his mustache between his fingers.  “The pressure, for one thing.  I should think cooking for the five of us is enough to suggest suicide, wouldn’t you?” 

“Not when one of Lionel’s guests has a criminal record.”  A smile seeps into the edges of her lips.

Val’s eyes widen.  He clambers toward her into Nicos’s chair.  “Who?”

“Gigi, of course.  She did a stint in a mental hospital, and before that was arrested for assaulting a waiter in a café, of all things.  Didn’t you know?”

“Why should I?”

Genny lets out a sigh fit for the theater.  “Why shouldn’t you?  You’ve probably drawn a map of all the moles on her body.”  She clears her throat.  “So’s every other man here, I suppose,” she mumbles.

“Not Lionel.”  Val smiles and juts his chin forward.

 “Yes, well,” she snorts, “goes without saying.  Even she’s not that good.  Got fine enough taste in books though, I must admit.”

“Speaking of which, what’ve you got for us now?”

“Oh, just the best book I’ve read all year.  It’s a little something called The Resurrectionists by Irishman, Michael Collins.  It’s a haunting, inventive murder mystery without a single one of the usual accoutrements and clichés.  A murder has taken place on a family farm where a lifetime of horrid secrets and betrayals are waiting to be exhumed.  It was published in hardcover by Scribner in October of 2002.”  

Nicos and I re-enter the dining room loaded up with overlapping dessert plates.

“What the devil happened in there???” Genny shrieks at our entrance. 

“He’s all right,” I announce.

“Not exactly,” Nicos adds.  “Seems he had a bit of a spell, got bloody well confused, put his clothes on inside out and passed out.”

“Mrs. Maddening’s attending to him,” I say.  “Googel’s bringing ‘round coffee and the Pear William soufflé directly.”

Nicos rises, swigs the last of the wine in his glass and pours another.  “I’ve got to find a lavatory,” he says stumbling toward the foyer.

“I should think so,” Genny chides.  “Try not to trip on the carpet!”

Val combs his mustache and rises.  “Well I’ve got the floor then.  My book is A Pawn For a Queen, by Fiona Buckley (Scribner, December, 2002).” 

“Not another one of those dull history lessons, I hope.”  Genny wipes her brow.

“In a word, Genny, shut up!  If you’re just too shallow for historical mysteries, I wonder how you ever got invited to this group in the first place.  Anyway, in this sixth installment of the Ursula Blanchard series, Ms. Blanchard goes to Scotland to head off her rebellious cousin Edward.  When she finds him dead, a rein of murder, secrets, and politics ensues in this suspenseful, north country whodunit.”  Val glares at Genny.

Googel shuffles into the dining room with a tray full of dessert dishes.  Val and I leap from our chairs to flank him on each side in the event of impending catastrophe.  But he manages to get the tray near the table where we empty it in seconds.  I gaze at the plates, stupefied.

“Googel, may I ask what’s happened to Pear William soufflé?”

“Appears he couldn’t make it, sir.  The lad never showed up.”  I roll my eyes in disgust.  “Chef Henri’s out cold,” he continues, “and so I did a bit of improvising.  Thus, you will find sliced pears drizzled with honey and vanilla ice cream.”

The plates reveal a quarter-sized round of honey in the center.  I can just see the kitchen floor now.

Genny aims her pointy face in my direction, her lips contracted into an angry red dot.  “You’re trying to starve us to death, aren’t you?  I’ll get the coffee.”  She storms off.

“Leaves you and me, chap,” Val says with a slippery grin. 

I gaze out at the expanse of the empty table, listen to the fake claps of thunder reverberating from the hidden speakers on the ceiling, and yawn.  It’s all such a bore at times. 

“So what’ve you got for us then, my dear host?”

“All right, all right, another delightful suspense by master storyteller, Michael Crichton.  Prey, (HarperCollins, Dec. 2002) is published in all the traditional formats, (hardcover, paperback, audio), but the Adobe Reader e-book format is packed with all sorts of little goodies not available in the other versions, like an exclusive interview and an article written by the author.  With the usual mix of intriguing characters amid a highly-charged atmosphere, Crichton delivers an unmistakable suspense too frightening to believe but too taut to put down.”  As I’m speaking, I distinctly hear Genny’s voice calling something out from down the hallway. 

“Val?  Va-al?” the lilting, feminine voice beckons.  “Come quickly.”

Before I even open my mouth, Val’s out the door toward the kitchen…and now, once again, I am left alone at my table with the fate of my guests, not to mention a blind butler, mute cook, and a deceased French chef, frighteningly uncertain.  A crack of thunder shakes the chandelier above my head and sends the entire house into a thicket of darkness… 

* * * * *

So I do thank you for joining us this evening for our little monthly chat on books… and murder.  If you have any suggestions of new mystery books on the market, get in touch with me via lisapolisar@yahoo.com.   

And then, until next time, I am your host, Lionel Twain.

Blind, us humans, to bleak and folly

Escape our fate by the devil’s breath

Live tales of dread and fear unholy

But escape not a Murder …by Death.

Adieu!

And for last month's installment of Murder by Death...follow this link!